Museums and Laboratories
by RhododendronPonticum
Summary: If Sherlock's kitchen was his laboratory, then his bedroom was his museum. Separation anxiety!Sherlock, Johnlock.


If Sherlock's kitchen was his laboratory, then his bedroom was his museum. Separation anxiety!Sherlock, Johnlock.

Sherlock's mother and father live lives of socialite busyness, perpetual late nights that allow them to nurture wineglasses instead of their children. Young Sherlock's protector is Mrs. Jeremy; a soft, warm middle aged woman whose rounded middle provides a comforting pillow for him when he can't sleep. When, at thirteen, he is deemed too old for childhood indulgences such as nannies, and Mrs. Jeremy moves on to a younger household, Sherlock is left distraught. He buries himself in a nest of bedcovers and fails to drink enough bottles of soda to wash his troubles away, until he finds Mrs. Jeremy's toothbrush left in the help's wing of the house. It finds its way to his bedside table and occasionally, on exceptionally lonely nights, between Sherlock's clenched fists in a desperate attempt to ease the frenzied gnawing in his stomach. Night upon night, the largeness of the bedroom swallows Sherlock whole until loneliness becomes the only thing he knows.

Sherlock had hated school but he loves Uni. Most of his classmates grow out of their harsh pettiness with age, and while still jealous of Sherlock's intelligence accept him with a grain of maturity. 'Bloody brilliant' is a frequent comment and some of the best days of Sherlock's life to that point are spent dissecting cadavers under the impressed eyes of his professors. Surrounded by dead bodies and sharp scalpels, Sherlock thrives in a way that he never has before. Knowledge is plentiful and success seems to bloom wherever he looks. At the end of four years, when Sherlock is left with a degree that he has no motivation to do anything with, he once again feels the pang of isolated emptiness. No one is left to appreciate his intelligence or give him the praise he's been relishing himself in. No one, that is, except the skull he's nicked from St. Bart's. It was impulse that made him take it, though later on it brings him acute comfort throughout days that used to be filled with ambition and progress that he doesn't realize how much he misses. Life is dull. Boring. Painful. He spends hours staring at the skull, holding conversations with the smooth white eye sockets and square jaw, and sometimes- only when Sherlock is feeling extremely lost- holds the round structure against his stomach and tries to press away the feelings of loneliness radiating beneath.

When Sherlock meets John, he is no longer alone. Even when John is out of the house, he's vibrantly there in Sherlock's mind without possibility of vanishing. While times where John is near him (when Sherlock can smell him, feel his warmth, see his face) are invigorating, the times when John isn't beside him don't mean that Sherlock lacks his presence. When John moves into 221B Baker Street he brings with him an aura of home- of loyalty- of an unspoken commitment to Sherlock that neither of them dare acknowledge. John is there with Sherlock even when his body isn't. This leads to many, many instances of dropped communication (instances in which the John in Sherlock's mind does not seem to have the same ability to hear Sherlock speak as the flesh-and-blood John does). But Sherlock was fulfilled- skulls, toothbrushes, and all relics of the past were forgotten because Sherlock wanted only to exist where John was, and that was in the present.

In twenty-twenty hindsight he realizes that he has been too greedy. After the John is almost captured and killed by a malicious serial killer, sustaining both several broken ribs, chemical burns all over his arms and a concussion that tethers him to a hospital bed for days, Sherlock is crushed with guilt. John's body remains alive, but John- Sherlock's John- manages to slip away from him.

Though Sherlock doesn't mentally acknowledge the seriousness of the injuries that he sustained in his successful rescue attempt, his body clocks every ache and pain and- ignoring protests from a restless mind- slows him down. He is hungry often and frequently tired. The first problem presents itself in his sleep schedule. He will remain awake until 2:00am, having not properly set his internal clock, fall into bed when he can no longer focus on the text in front of him, and proceed to sleep soundly, dreamlessly, until well after noon that day. Upon waking, he finds himself brimming with terrible, trembling panic. He sits with a jolt, his mind racing to pinpoint the source of his anxiety until it inevitably settles on _John._ _Hurt. His fault. Dying. Dead?_ Long legs catapult him out of his room, his unstable breaths sucking his stomach back towards his spine.

"John? John… Jo…" the soft cries die on his lips when he sees his companion seated at the breakfast table, alone or with Mrs. Hudson, sipping on a hot mug of tea and eating toasts with still-bandaged hands. Upon first occurrence, his unseemly and irrational behavior disturbs Sherlock. Then it embarrasses him. Eventually, it becomes ordinary.

This carries on for a fortnight. Then, one late afternoon, Sherlock wakes to an empty flat.

Shoulders tense. The back of his neck prickles. A horrible, horrible dread creeps up his chest, slithers into his throat. "John?"

There is no answer. "John!" he cries louder, fingers shaking in anticipation of a response.

Nothing. The tremor spreads to his hands, takes over his arms. _He's dead, they've found him, he's gone. My fault. Not coming back. _A frantic energy propels Sherlock through the kitchen, overturning dishes, pots, folders, experiments. _Where is he? What have they done to him? _Glass shatters around him but he pays no heed. His dressing gown billows behind him as he tears into the living room, tossing couch cushions, a cold sweat coating his body. "John! John!" The body of his voice has been reduced to gasping sobs, his beaten rationality leaving his mind a scrambled, pounding mess. In the bathroom he collapses between the tub and the sink, tucking his knees to his chest like a child and rooting his fingernails into the back of his neck. _John, John, John… _

Ten minutes passes.

The ringing in his ears is so loud that he doesn't hear the front door open and shut. "Hello? Sherlock? What's happened?" With the lack of response, footsteps speed up, jogging through the ruins of the flat. Eventually they reach the bathroom. "My God… Sherlock…"

As soon as John's body reaches him he latches on, pulls him down until he's kneeling, doesn't plan to let go.

"Sherlock…" a tentative hand rests on the taller man's curls, caught between comforting and questioning. "The flat?"

There is no answer from Sherlock. John catalogues his tense muscles, white fingers, wet eyes. Anxiety attack. Sherlock, anxious?

"Sherlock, you're bleeding." John pries Sherlock's fingers from his jacket, backs up two paces and touches Sherlock's foot tentatively, where a sizeable piece of glass has lodged itself in the arch. Sherlock looks up hungrily, searching John's eyes.

"Where…?"

"I was picking up groceries," John says slowly. "It's nearly supper. I thought…" he shuts his mouth. Better not to say anything until he has a better grasp on the situation.

The rest of the evening passes quietly. John removes the glass and bandages Sherlock's foot, tidies the flat, cooks them both soup and biscuits, watches telly next to Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock looks ashamed, uncomfortable. He doesn't let John out of his sight until he reluctantly slips into his bedroom, looking smaller than John has ever seen him look before.

Sherlock doesn't sleep for a long time. He stands against his closed bedroom door for close to forty minutes, listening to John's movements about the flat. _He's here. He's alive_. When John climbs the stairs to his bedroom, Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed and tries to analyze what had overtaken him upon discovering John's absence, but the incident sits stubborn and untouchable in his mind. He stares at the wall until exhaustion overtakes him. When he does sleep, he sleeps for close to twenty hours.

He wakes drained. There is a note on the kitchen table.

_Sherlock- Gone down the street to get takeaway. Will be back by 18:30. Don't worry. –John. _

He glances warily around the eating area, trying to supress the ill feeling growing behind his sternum. He picks up the note, crosses to the couch, and sits. His eyes pore over the paper, fingers searching the indents of the pen John had used. _John…_

He remembers the time after John had first moved in- the sensation of him always being there, never thinking that there could _ever _be a time when he wasn't… Had he really been that daft? Sherlock swallowed hard, felt an acidity lurch down his throat. When would John be back? 18:30?_ What time is it?_ Because John is most decidedly _not there_, his absence so glaringly obvious that Sherlock has a hard time taking his eyes off of the front door.

He hears the footsteps coming up the stairs before he sees anything at the door. He hurries to his room and shoves John's note under his pillow before walking into the kitchen as nonchalantly as he can. He cannot let John see his weakness. He's seen enough already.

The two sit and eat in comfortable silence before John breaks the spell.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I had a thought. That maybe, since you're still stuck inside, you could start working on some new experiments. To keep your mind occupied, you know. I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I spoke to Molly this afternoon, and she's agreed to send over some new lab equipment for you tomorrow. I've cleared some space on the kitchen counters. I'm just thinking, because I'll be going back to the surgery tomorrow…"

"You're going back to the surgery?"

"Yes, I've spoken to my doctors and they think that I'm well enough. We need the money, Sherlock." There was a note of sympathy in his eyes that irked Sherlock.

"Yes, of course. Well then, goodnight." Sherlock pushes back his nearly full plate of food and retreats into the darkness of his bedroom. He listens to John listening to the telly before he falls into a restless sleep.

When he wakes again, there are boxes of beakers, petri dishes, pipettes, and a new microscope packed into the kitchen. A note from John lay in the same place as it had the day before. _Will return close to 20:00. Enjoy your new laboratory. _Without dressing or eating, Sherlock unpacks the boxes and neatly lays out his scientific workspace. The equipment is beautiful. He wishes he could think of an experiment that would interest him. All he can think about is John, and when he'd be returning home. If he was safe at the surgery. What if he wasn't? What if they'd found him there, knocked him out, taken him…? Sherlock struggles to draw a deep breath. He takes John's note from the table and enters his bedroom intent on finding its twin. Once this is done he places both on his dresser.

_See? _his rational brain barks impatiently. _He left you a note, he will be back. Stop being an idiot._

But Sherlock can't stop itching at his palms and clenching his jaw. He needs John here, _now. _

A brilliant thought strikes him, and he rushes to the bathroom. He bends over the tub, eyes examining the drain. Eventually he finds what he is looking for- six, maybe seven strands of John's thick blonde hair. He sets them in a petri dish from his laboratory before placing them next to the notes on his dresser. Now he has a part of John here, with him. Now he can pretend that he's okay. His shoulders fall from their place next to his ears and his hands relax from their fists. John will be home soon.

He keeps up the appearance of his laboratory for John's sake. He values the contentment that settles onto John's face when he thinks Sherlock has been keeping up with his experiments. When John his home Sherlock basks in his presence, tries to memorize every line of his body, the way he walks, the way he says certain words. He can't get his mind to focus on anything but _John_.

Eventually the hairs aren't enough to keep him pacified. He tells John to stop doing the dishes. He takes John's used spoons and mugs as well half-eaten pieces of toast, and then washes the rest to avoid John's suspicion. He needs more of John near him. He becomes desperate. He makes feeble attempts to spend time in other rooms of the flat while John is gone, but eventually his laboratory is neglected in favour of the one thing that keeps him going- his museum.

Weeks pass. Sherlock's anxiety seems to abide with each new additions- John's shaving razor (he'd bought him an identical one to replace it, of course), a pair of trainers that he was sure John never wore anymore, a fingernail clipping he'd found by the wastebasket, a t-shirt of his that had missed the laundry bin, John's old cane, some takeaway receipts that John had signed at the restaurant before throwing out. These were followed by used tissues, hairbrushes, one of John's pillowcases, and the daily notes left on the kitchen table.

Occasionally John mentions the fact that they seem to be getting short on silverware, or asks if Sherlock knows where his comb has gone. Sherlock always answers with shrugs. These things, he justifies, can be bought. John can't.

John insists that Sherlock keep up with his doctor's appointments, and this turns out to be his downfall. He leaves the flat on his own, once more away from John, but feels more secure knowing that John is home and that he'll be able to return to him in under an hour. When he does return- healthy, calm, and approved to start fieldwork again- he finds John standing in the door of his bedroom.

Sherlock steps up behind him, unsure of what to say. How to explain. _What is John thinking? Is this too much- is he going to leave_?

"Sherlock?" John says softly, breaking up his thoughts like an icepick. He turns to face the taller man, his expression unreadable. "That day I found you…?" The question lingers but Sherlock isn't sure he knows the answer. Sherlock must look as shaken as he feels because John sighs slightly and says, "I'm not angry."

The tension doesn't leave Sherlock's body. His coat is still on, he realizes. His shoes. John looks… what does John look? There is space between them- six feet at least.

"John, I…"

"I know."

Silence drags out between them. There's no way to reverse it. Sherlock takes a shaky breath and offers the truth.

"I felt…"

"Lonely."

"Lonely…" Sherlock exudes breathlessly. "I was so…"

"Afraid?"

"Afraid. Alone. Worried. I couldn't stop…"

"I know. I understand."

Sherlock's eyes are big, begging. John takes a small step forward.

"Sherlock, I'm right here. I'm right here. I'll always be here."

"You can't know that. You can't…"

"No, I can't promise you I will always be here," John says flatly. Sherlock's heart plummets. "But," he continues, "I can promise you that I will fight against every force on this earth to stay here with you. You're not alone Sherlock. I'm right here."

They move at the same time, closing the distance between them. Sherlock tentatively takes John's hand in his own, but John pulls him tightly against his body seconds later. His nose reaches to the top of Sherlock's neck so that he can feel the breath flowing in and out of John's body.

"Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

"Yes." The answer comes automatically.

"Listen to me. I'm not going to leave you. I will always come back. We'll be here together, you and me." John presses lips, wet, against Sherlock's neck. New warmth blossoms in Sherlock's abdomen, and he pulls John's form closer in response.

"John," the name leaves Sherlock's lips as something much closer to a sob than he would have liked.

"Shhhh…" John massages his back with his strong, careful hands. "I know, Sherlock, I know. I'm right here."

John loosens his grip but keeps his hold on Sherlock's hand, drawing them both towards Sherlock's bed, coat and all. They both lie down, facing each other. "I need you to know this Sherlock. You don't need my hair in a petri dish, you've got it," he moves Sherlock's hand from in between them up to his head, pushing it back through soft blonde hair, "right here. You don't need my fingernails, you've got my hands." He intertwined their fingers, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's. "You don't need traces of my saliva on teacups. You can have it," John brushed closer and settled his lips on Sherlock's in a kiss that said everything he couldn't say in words, "right here. I'm right here. I'm going to be right here."

John calls the surgery and takes a week off. He removes Sherlock's coat and shoes and then turns to the dresser, taking Sherlock's samples and objects and returning them to their rightful places in the flat, or to the trash. He locks the door and climbs back into Sherlock's bed, covering them both with the covers. John keeps one hand protectively in the small of Sherlock's back, the other near his face to catch the slow, lazy tears of relief that fall from his flatmate's eyes. Few words are spoken, and more than a few languid yet desperate kisses are exchanged. Sherlock feels pressure seep from his body and feels _John_, all of him, filling it with something warm, constant, safe- better than any toothbrush or skull could ever give him. _His John_.

As an afterthought in the early hours of the morning, John adds, "You don't need a museum, Sherlock."

Sherlock, sure, finishes the thought for him, "I've got you."


End file.
